I nodded my answer and turned to Ethan, whose face looked even paler than usual. Without a second thought, I threaded my hand through his arm. It rested closely to his side because he kept his hand in his pocket. If it had been any other boy, I would have felt rejected but the expression on his face, I noticed, was no longer pained, so I kept my hand right where it was.
It was so odd to me that my touch was just as soothing to him as his was to me. His head lifted, his hair no longer shielding so much of his face. He looked on Father Connolly calmly as he spoke to him about our MO but I observed when he pinned my hand even closer to his side, as if he needed the weight of our contact to deepen. He was nervous. I squeezed his arm to reassure him, which earned me a long side glance. My stomach clenched at his look. Uh-oh. That familiar pang of yearning, that deep want for Ethan when I was in high school, crept back into my soul and I had to remind myself why I was there, my mission, and that it was not the time to focus on anything else but that aim alone.
Father Connolly started his scooter so I followed his lead, putting on my helmet and handing Ethan his.
“You’ll have to drive again,” I told him, avoiding eye contact.
“Oh, yeah, okay,” he told me, straddling the small bike.
He started the motorbike, backing it up to idle beside Father’s. My heart began to beat an irregular rhythm as I approached him. A gust of wind blew a bit of cologne my way. The scent was signature Ethan, a little bit of sandalwood and a mixture of other scents I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The smell made my stomach sink, reminding me of high school all over again.
But Ethan didn’t want you in high school, Finley, remember? In fact, he made it quite clear that he’s just your friend. Stop torturing yourself!
I checked the old feeling bubbling up and sat behind him. I brought the inside of my bare thighs to the outside of his jean-clad ones and it proved to be fatal, making me feel almost sick with the memories of him sleeping in my bed that night back in Kalispell.
What Ethan didn’t know about that night was he’d talked in his sleep.
“I didn’t know it was you,” he’d told me with closed eyes that late night.
I assumed he was talking about Cricket Hunt so I ignored him and rolled him over onto his side toward the wall. He groaned in pain from his head wound and laid back again, flat on his back, his broad chest heaving with deep breaths.
“I didn’t know it was you,” he’d repeated, mumbling something about dancing and Holly’s name.
I couldn’t help myself. “Who did you think it was?” I’d asked him, not really expecting him to answer.
“The most beautiful girl I’d ever seen,” he told me in his sleep, shocking me.
He’s drunk, I told myself.
“I wanted to know you,” he told me. “I didn’t want to know you,” he continued, confusing me. “I wanted to touch you. I wanted to touch you. I would have died just to touch you. One time. I would have needed just the one time.”
He’d stopped talking at that most inopportune moment. “Ethan?” I’d asked again and again with no response. He was out. His words did things to my stomach, things I’d never felt before, things I would never be able to admit to anyone. I’d turned over on my side, fighting all my old feelings for him, those long and buried feelings, finally falling asleep, reassuring myself he was only drunk. Swallow the butterflies, Finley. Swallow the butterflies.
Carefully, oh so carefully, I wrapped my arms around his ribs. His stomach muscles contracted when my hands touched him and I swallowed.
“Ready, ye two?” Father asked, unaware of my secret torment.
We both nodded, then Ethan breathed deeply, glancing over his shoulder, his eyes meeting mine in a sideways glance. “I got you,” he whispered, his hand resting over mine briefly, sending me reeling as we took off. The almost three-hour trip into Hanoi was agonizing on so many levels. The proximity between us was too much for one person to endure, and it didn’t help that the ride itself was physically exhausting, causing me to lean into Ethan for support after a few miles. My ear flat against his back, I could hear every breath, every tortured heartbeat.
Ethan was indeed a tortured soul, there was no doubt in my mind about that. I’d always saw that in him, always. I knew his struggles. It was what made me think we’d had so much in common when we were younger. It takes one to know one.
We arrived in Hanoi around eight and the traffic was saturated as usual. The city had been awake for several hours, already having lived an entire day before we’d reached the outskirts. Ethan followed Father Connolly to a nearby street vendor and we shoved our motorbikes as close to the curb as possible, tangling them in with a hundred others, before getting off and standing them. I tore off the bike as quickly as possible, earning me an odd look from Ethan.
I shrugged. “Rough ride,” was all I could offer.
He nodded in agreement but I was sure my ride was rough for an entirely different reason than his.
“Phở?” Father asked, making us both grin at one another.
If you ever want to hear something truly knee-smacking, ask an Irishman to speak Vietnamese. Feckin’ highloirious, boyo!
We ordered our soup and all three of us sat hunched on the tiny available chairs close to the building wall just outside the shop. Ethan crouched down on his haunches, foregoing the chair altogether.
He looked at me. “I’d just break it,” he explained, smiling.
I smiled back. “They’re made for American kindergartners, really. Don’t feel bad.”